


Night That Never Was

by TwisterMelody



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drunkenness, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Fluff, Friendship, M/M, Slash, The Sign of Three Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-08 07:36:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwisterMelody/pseuds/TwisterMelody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers for The Sign of Three!<br/>Had the client not shown up at 221B during John's stag night, things would have been different. There would have been more laughter and love, but such good things are always laced with heartbreak and pain hidden between the cracks. For Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, it's no different. No matter what happens, they always end up here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night That Never Was

John nearly slid out of his chair, giggling. "No, you're not me."  
  
"I could be," Sherlock said, the words rolling lazily off of his tongue.  
  
"You really couldn't." John made an attempt to pull himself back into his seat, but his arms slipped from under him. His hand crashed into the side table, making it wobble and send his glass of whiskey falling to the floor. Both men stared at the puddle of liquid soaking into the rug for a moment, neither of them making a move to do anything about it. Eventually, John staggered to his feet and made his way into the kitchen, but not without swaying under the direction of his clumsy feet.  
  
Sherlock knitted his eyebrows, focusing closely on John's movements as he busied himself with getting another drink. His arm moved with a muscle memory, bringing his glass up to his lips. The slow burn of alcohol coated his tongue as he drank in the sight of John Watson. With the slightly ruffled blond hair, the tinge of pink over his cheeks, and a smile that brought more light into the flat than the flame of the fireplace ever could, it was more intoxicating than the alcohol. As his mind wandered and lingered on John, his glass emptied. Frowning, he sat it aside and got to his feet before stumbling across the room and flopping down unceremoniously on the sofa.  
  
"Are we done?" John asked as he stood over him, a new glass of golden amber liquid in his hand,  
  
Sherlock adjusted himself on the sofa to where he was lying comfortably on his back among the leather cushions. He lazily pulled one shoulder up and let it fall. "Not necessarily," he answered with an air of indifference. "Being vertical was proving too much of a challenge."  
  
John nodded once and turned towards his chair.  
  
"No, no," Sherlock whined, causing John to turn back to face him. "Too far away."  
  
John padded back over to the sofa before setting his glass on the coffee table. He shifted on one foot and settled his hands on his hips. "Then what do you -"  
  
Before he could finish his sentence, Sherlock had pulled one lanky arm out to grasp John by the wrist. One quick tug was all that was needed to send him stumbling forward. He landed on top of Sherlock with a dull thump. John wiggled about for a moment to get his bearings. Finally, he braced his arms on either side of Sherlock, lifting himself off his body.   
  
With Sherlock pinned beneath him and their faces left mere inches apart, John couldn't stop staring at him. His brow furrowed and his lips parted slightly, his entire face masked in confusion. Suddenly, his expression melted into a smile, and his eyes closed as his body started trembling with laughter.  
  
"Oh my God," he laughed as he collapsed, burying his face in Sherlock's chest.  
  
Sherlock frowned as he glared at the top of John's head. "What?"  
  
The laughter slowly subsided, and John lifted his head to meet Sherlock's gaze, a wide grin plastered on his face. "You called me clever."  
  
"No I didn't," he denied shyly.  
  
"You did!" John folded his arms atop Sherlock's chest before resting his chin on them. "And to think, all this time you've called me an idiot." A smug smile sneaked its way across his lips.  
  
Sherlock writhed cat-like under John's attention, stretching his long arms above his head. "You're a clever idiot," he grinned. He waited for another laugh, or perhaps a sarcastic remark at his comment, but none came about. Instead, a flash of heat bloomed across his cheeks when he found John smirking at him.  
  
"That's more like it," John told him.  
  
Suddenly, John tore away the faded yellow note from his own forehead, and Sherlock's followed. He balled them up and drunkenly tossed the crumpled paper to the floor. With the task done, he folded his arms neatly and resumed his position as if nothing happened.  
  
"What did you do that for?"  
  
"I know who you are," he said. "I don't need a paper to remind me." A moment passed between them before John motioned for the game to continue with a quick nod of his head. "Go on," he said, "figure out the thing."  
  
"Do I know me?"  
  
"Er, well yes," John replied.  
  
Sherlock frowned. "That didn't really narrow it down, did it?"  
  
"No, not really," John answered with tone of amusement.  
  
After a moment, John began giggling, and Sherlock couldn't help but join in. It became a reflex to cling onto John's infectious laughter that he'd become so fond of. With both of their bodies trembling, John began to slip, and Sherlock's arms automatically wrapped around John's back in a secure hold. John mirrored his action, unfolding his arms and tucking them under Sherlock's body. Slowly, the sound died down, and even the muffled noise of London couldn't have distracted them. The two of them were left breathing in time as they held each other in a warm embrace, their eyes locked with neither one daring to break the gaze.  
  
Everything about their situation felt right. It was almost as if they were made for each other. John's body on top of his made him feel safe, his scent deepening as it burned like candles in his mind, bringing about a heavy feeling of nostalgia. Time, it seemed, had come to a standstill as Sherlock found himself lost in a pair of stormy eyes, and he wasn't sure he ever wanted it to move again. Time would move on, and John would move further out of his grasp before he was gone, and Sherlock could feel that. He tightened his arms fractionally as a reassurance he was still there.  
  
John had to have known too, for he was the one to tear his gaze away. The tips of his ears reddened, Sherlock noticed, and his mouth drew into a line. His head turned, leaving him to rest his cheek on Sherlock's chest.  
  
"Say something," John demanded softly.  
  
"What do you want me to say?" he asked, the timbre of his voice rumbling through his chest.  
  
"Anything."  
  
"Alright. Anything," Sherlock parroted, unable to resist sarcasm when the opportunity came about.   
  
From his angle, he could just see the soft smile taking over John's face as he nuzzled his head against his dress shirt.  
  
"You're like thunder," John murmured.  
  
"And you're the calm in my storm," Sherlock breathed. The words drifted from his thoughts with ease as the alcohol flowed through his veins. Though they danced around each other, such thoughts were never meant to be heard, especially not by John. They were to be locked away deep in his mind, hidden from himself. Love was a dangerous emotion, he knew. But tonight, everything was being laid upon the table. He was starting to show his hand, and he was far too euphoric to care.  
  
John lifted his head at the declaration, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards.  
  
"Is that your way of saying you need me around or else you'll destroy everything?"  
  
"I think the bullet holes in the wall speak for themselves," Sherlock mused.  
  
John hummed in agreement. "Come on, then," he said. "Get on with it."  
  
"Oh yes," he said, his mind snapping back to the game at hand. "Am I happy?"  
  
John seemed blindsided by the question. He knitted his eyebrows in concentration. "I... I don't know," he finally admitted.  
  
"You can't say I don't know!"  
  
"But I don't..." John trailed off. He frowned and became silent for few long moments while Sherlock waited for an answer. Finally, he looked him straight in the eye. "Are _you_ happy?"  
  
Maybe it was the fog the alcohol created, or the vaults of his mind that it pried open, but Sherlock was hit with a wave of deja vu. Staring at John, hidden deductions slid their way through the gears of his mind, jamming his thoughts and everything he thought he knew. There was a history written across John's face that stretched between them long past this lifetime.  A tentative hand reached out lightly cupped one side of John's face, long fingers curling around the edge of his jaw, but John didn't move.  
  
Sherlock knitted his brow as the readings came to him. In John's expression he found tragedy and loss and heartbreak on repeat. The lines of his face became a timeline of adventures and stories and locked memories. In his eyes he found laughter and love and loyalty and trust that stretched on for more than a century. Somewhere in the back of his mind it registered that they had been here before. The familiarity of their lives made sense as it played out on an everlasting loop without fading out of existence. They had gone through this time and time again, each time being different but under the same general rules. Sherlock was the last one to buy into such a thing. The thought itself seemed improbable, but whatever remains...  
  
He blinked.  
  
"This is the happiest I've been," he whispered in realization at the memories from lifetimes past slamming into him. It was the truth. This kind of happiness was different than that he'd ever known, it was one of warmth and security with John embracing him, the two of them existing in their own world on the sofa. The feeling of euphoria that washed over him was brand new, and couldn't be compared to anything in the past. John Watson, _his_ John Watson, had rewritten the rules of his life and reconstructed the walls of his mind like never before.  
  
And though heartbreak was inevitable, as it always was, for this moment he was happy.  
  
John opened his mouth as if to speak, but there was no chance for him to do it. In a flash, the two of them had lost their secure hold and went tumbling onto the hardwood floor with John pinned underneath Sherlock. A small bubble of panic rose within Sherlock until John's huff of laughter burst through it. They haphazardly scrambled onto their sides to face each other with Sherlock's back pressed against the sofa.  
  
"You're alright, then?" he asked.  
  
"More than alright," John smiled. "Not as comfortable, though."  
  
The hardwood floor would play hell on their bodies come morning, but neither of them were willing to move. Sherlock reached out, slipping his arm underneath John's head for support, and John mirrored his action. Together they lay on the small space between the sofa and coffee table, uncomfortable but purely content at the same time.  
  
"This game is frustrating," Sherlock sighed in an endeavor to tear his thoughts away from the flood of information.  
  
John giggled at his annoyance. In an apparent attempt to seek out more contact, John rested his right hand on the curve of Sherlock's left hip. Sherlock noted the warmth of his hand, but his focus was on John's laughter. That particular sound may as well have been music to his ears, a harmonious symphony every time he heard it.  
  
"You're enjoying this, watching me suffer," he playfully accused.  
  
"I enjoy watching you _think._ You're clever enough to -"  
  
"No."  
  
"Sorry?"  
  
"I'm not clever, apparently. Or at least, you don't say that anymore," Sherlock grumbled. It was a childish attempt to grab attention and he knew it, yet he couldn't care less. He thrived for John's attention, honestly. John was the one who made him feel as if he were the most brilliant man in the world, and when it came to a stop, he became puzzled at what he'd done wrong.  
  
John's expression softened as his thumb lightly stroked over his hip. "Surely you know how I feel about you. It should be fairly obvious."  
  
Sherlock frowned. "I can't hear the words you don't say."  
  
"And I can't see beyond all the masks you put on," John pointed out. "Seems we're both a bit frustrating, aren't we?"  
  
"Always." He had a point, Sherlock realized. It always was and always would be. They were the same stubborn souls, with time being the only changing factor in their partnership as everything else remained constant. He let the conversation slip, changing it back to the game before he could go any further into his thoughts, before he could let himself break. "Am I dead?"  
  
John's eyes widened in a familiar flash of fear and hidden panic. A steady hand slowly hovered its way up Sherlock's body until two steady fingers pressed against the pulse point in his neck.  
  
"The thing," he clarified.  
  
"No," he said. John recoiled his hand in embarrassment, but Sherlock reached out and grabbed onto it before it went out of sight.  
  
Realizing the wound he'd just opened, he thumbed the back of John's hand. The movement was a reassurance and a promise wrapped up in a single silent gesture. John nodded and closed his eyes. The flat was hushed save for their breathing, and for once, Sherlock welcomed it.  
  
"Is it always this quiet?" John asked.  
  
"It didn't used to be," Sherlock murmured. "I'm plagued by the deafening silence in your absence."  
  
"What do you do when I'm gone?"  
  
He knew what the question meant, and that it meant no harm. But, somewhere between his ears and his brain, things got tangled. Instead of something so simple, heard a coded question of, 'What will you do when I've left for good?'  
  
"Let it consume me," he answered.  
  
John's hand twisted in Sherlock's grasp. He could have predicted it, the poison in his words that would send John away from him. Instead, what John did was surprise him as he always did. His hand twisted and soon enough his fingers were laced within the spaces between his own.  
  
They were in a protective bubble on the floor. In a perfect world, there would be nothing to get between them. In a perfect world, they could just exist as one. But, that was never how the universe worked, and they both knew it. Instead, they stayed in their protective bubble for as long as they could, not wanting to face the reality of the days ahead.  
  
"Morning will come much too soon," John said quietly.  
  
"You'll be leaving me," Sherlock whispered to himself.  
  
"You left me first."  
  
The reply caught him off guard, and his heart sank down to his shoes. There was no harshness in John's voice, just a reminder of what went wrong between them, and a reminder of the damage that was done. There are things in life that can be forgotten, things that can be ignored, but this isn't one of them. Sherlock squeezed his eyes firmly shut with regret. The hurt that he caused was too great and the wound too deep. Still yet, Sherlock would spend the rest of his days apologizing if it meant it would help John in the least.  
  
"I'm sorry," he breathed, squeezing his hand.  
  
"So am I."  
  
He opened his eyes and stared at their hands again. After this night, there would be none of this. The wedding was coming whether Sherlock was ready for the battle or not. "You love her," he said quietly. It wasn't a question, but rather a reminding statement to himself.  
  
"I do," John replied after a moment.  
  
"And me?"  
  
Sadness washed over John's features. The thin layer of their bubble was stretching to its limits, and it would only go so far before it would shatter, but Sherlock couldn't help himself. The two of them had been playing it out in the silence, their undefined relationship left unspoken. The line of friendship had been blurred some time ago, leaving them both lost on where they stood. The cracks and healing wounds added to the complexity of the situation, and neither of them knew what to do. But if Sherlock was sure of one thing, he was sure of John.  
  
Sherlock nodded his head and tore his gaze away, not wanting to know the answer.  
  
"Quite right," he whispered, utterly defeated.  
  
He began moving to get up and leave, to give John the space he deserved. He untangled their hands and moved clumsily. Before he could even sit up, though, a hand clutched onto his shirt with a desperation, pulling him back down.  
  
"Sherlock, stay? Please? For me?" John pleaded, his expression unreadable.  
  
He stopped in his tracks. _For me._ Those were the two words that Sherlock Holmes would never deny when they came from John Watson. He stayed. Always for John.  
  
"Did you figure it out?" Sherlock asked, changing the subject as he lay back down. "The thing, I mean."  
  
John laughed. "There's no point seeing as how you don't even know who I'm supposed to be."  
  
"I don't know who you're supposed to be, but I know who you are."  
  
John knitted his brow. "You're not making any sense," he said.  
  
"I'm making perfect sense, you're just not listening!" He bit his lip. "Not the game, John. Us." John still seemed rather confused, so Sherlock sighed, opting to get it out in the open now. "There are circumstances beyond our control that set us on this path of who we're supposed to be. But that's not who we are." Sherlock cupped John's face softly. "And you, my John, I always know who you are no matter the circumstances. Always."  
  
"I don't follow you."  
  
"Yes you do. You always do."  
  
Sherlock grabbed John's hand and placed it over his rapidly beating heart. If nothing else, he needed him to realize the facts he'd only come to remember tonight, to know he wasn't crazy in his belief.   
  
John remained utterly silent as his focus became of Sherlock. He stared at his hand for a long while, letting Sherlock's heart thrum wildly against his ribcage in an attempt to break out of his body. A full minute passed before his face went slack, his eyes seeking out Sherlock's.  
  
"Oh my God," he whispered, "it's you. It's always you." He let out a shaky breath before speaking again. "Sherlock." And with one word, it was like it was the first time all over again. The days of nostalgia with London dressed in fog, the era they found each other but could never be. And in the present time, they could, and still yet, they couldn't. It was always too late. The wrong time, the wrong place, the tiring obstacles being thrown at them from different angles. Awful couldn't even begin to describe it.  
  
"Do you see now?" Sherlock asked.  
  
So badly he wanted to take John away from the life he was about to venture into. He wanted to take him into his room, lavish his body with kisses, hold him close, and let him feel all the things trapped within him from lifetimes past. He wanted to keep him by his side forever and let John illuminate a new path for them to adventure down together. If he had one wish, it would be to rearrange this current path entirely, but he couldn't.  
  
Even if John loved two people, he was to be married, and Sherlock would be there with him. He would make a vow on his own terms, his own promise to John, he decided. He deserved at least that much and so much more. If in this lifetime, John was to be happy with someone else yet again, Sherlock would accept it, and he would wait for John Watson no matter how long it took.  
  
John slowly nodded. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his eyes glistening with tears threatening to fall.  
  
He realized he'd made yet another mistake, and he cursed himself for it. To keep John in the dark, it wouldn't have torn open a new wound. But, he would have figured it out eventually. They always did, and it never hurt any less. In this particular time where so much potential was held, it was nearly like a shot through their souls. Sherlock gently wrapped his hand around John's and brought it to his mouth. Soft lips brushed against rough knuckles with an apology stretching over years and years of heartbreak.  
  
"So am I."  
  
He placed John's hand over his heart again, laying his own on top of it. Each beat pulsed out a cry as they sent trapped words through his veins. They moved in closer to breathe each other in. Points of contact were made with their heads touching, their hands together, and their legs intertwined. They lay there for the rest of the night, holding on to each other and a long solved mystery of who they were.   
  
If they forgot by morning, and the alcohol was to blame, perhaps it was for the best. If Sherlock woke before John, he would get off the floor, and place himself away, leaving inevitable questions unspoken. He would go to the wedding and watch John marry as his heart shattered for the hundredth time, and he would smile. John Watson deserved happiness, and Sherlock Holmes would do all he could in his power to ensure it.

For John Watson, Sherlock Holmes was capable of love.


End file.
